it smells like...

He was perfect. Beyond perfect. Blue eyes, darkish skin, salt and pepper hair, doing a PhD in philosophy, read poetry, wrote stories, a stranger in this land... absolutely perfect.
So, after a few emotional crisis, I was able to see him, at his place; there is nothing sexier than letting a guy cook for you, so I did just that.
He hadn't finished cooking when I got there, lingerie touching skin ready, with a scarf that profiled my neck and a smile that didn't say too much.
He, lets say his name was J, so J acted the cutest way as he tried to cook for me. I had seen him before at a bar, we had talked for hours about poetry and religion, philosophy and contemporary art... the smoke of the cigarettes that passed in that conversation stuck to our skins and throats... two intellectuals trying to flirt and getting stuck in poses. Lovely.
This time it was different, we had talked on the phone a few times, we had confessed indecent things over the phone, and, despite all our mind masturbations, we were quite horny, and J was nervous and showed it with pots and pans, I just stood there, smoking, drinking, and smiling.
So he cooked and I watched, drinking my wine, and picturing him in my home... he would be cooking while I read some filthy poem from the Victorian era out loud, he would do the laundry while I recited a bit of Heidegger, he would fold my pantys while I wrote... It would be perfect... and there would be lovemaking in the morning and at night and in the afternoon, we would make love on top of our philosophy books, we would masturbate each other as we wrote the things we needed to write, we would write very deep intellectual letters and jerk off as we read them... he was perfect, and I thought about all of this as he cooked for me.
We ate, and had more wine, and I wet my lips thinking how perfect he was.
and then, then... it happened. He kissed me.
and my dream home, my dreams, my hornyness, it all went down a very existentialist drain.
I thought maybe it wasnt true, maybe it was me, maybe something was wrong with me... and I tried it again. But no. He smelled like Cheese. J smelled like hickory cheese, like blue cheese, like cheese. and seriously, who wants to smell cheese in bed?
I don't have the cheese fetish well developed, and was quite upset about that. I tried, I really did. Again and again, I smelled his neck, there was cheese, I smelled his bellybutton, cheese. I didnt go further south, because I didnt want to encounter Raclette or something even worse...
and the dream poped with the cheese smell. J was perfect, except for his natural B.O.
I am sure he is still searching for a mousy girl who will adore him.